The old man was more than just pale—he was white. His hair was the color of alabaster, while his skin was little more than wrinkled quartz. He reminded Hadrian of an egg, colorless and fragile.

“I wanted to introduce myself.” Hadrian slipped fully inside. “All this time at sea and we never had the opportunity to properly meet. I thought that was unfortunate, don’t you?”

“Why, I—Who are you again?”

“Hadrian. I was the cook on the Emerald Storm.”

“Ah, well, I hate to say it, Hadrian, but I was not impressed with your cooking. Perhaps a little less salt and some wine would have helped. Not that this is any great feast,” he said, gesturing toward his half-eaten meal. “I’m too old for such rich foods. It upsets my stomach.”

“What are you writing?”

“Oh, this? Just notes, really. My mind isn’t what it once was, you see. I’ll forget everything soon, and then where will I be? A historian who can’t remember his own name. It really could come to that, you know. Assuming I live that long. Bernie keeps reassuring me I won’t live out this trip. He’s probably right. He’s the expert on such things, after all.”

“Really? What kind of things?”

“Oh, spelunking, of course. I’m told Bernie is an old hand at it. We make a good team, he and I. He digs up the past and I put it down, so to speak.” Antun chuckled to himself until he coughed. Hadrian poured the man a glass of water, which he gratefully accepted.

After he had recovered, Hadrian asked, “Have you ever heard of a man called Merrick Marius?”

Bulard shook his head. “Not unless I have and then forgotten. Was he a king or a hero, perhaps?”

“No, I actually thought he might have been the man who sent you here.”

“Oh no. Our mandate is from the Patriarch himself, though Sentinel Thranic doesn’t tell me much. I’m not complaining, mind you. How often does a priest of Maribor have the opportunity to serve the Patriarch? I can tell you precisely—twice. Once when I was so much younger, and now that I’m nearly dead.”

“I thought you were a historian. You’re also a priest?”

“I know I don’t look much like one, do I? My calling was the pen, not the flock.”

“You’ve written books, then?”

“Oh yes, my best is still The History of Apeladorn, which I’m constantly having to append, of course.”

“I know a monk at the Winds Abbey who’d love to meet you.”

“Is that up north in Melengar? I passed through there once about twenty years ago.” Antun nodded thoughtfully. “They were very helpful, saved my life if I recall correctly.”

“So, you’re on this trip to record what you see?”